


Négligé

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Lingerie, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-24 00:12:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15618150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: Two weeks pass, and Crow is waiting for him at the gates of Megaton as the sun rises, a brown-paper wrapped bundle in his arms. “From your measurements.” He assures, “The closest fit.”When he peeks between the paper layers, Vaultie glimpses black lace. He feels his heartbeat in his fingertips, stuttering, “Thank you.”





	Négligé

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of a spiritual sister to Stocking. What can I say, I have a type? This was also heavily inspired by themightynyunyi’s art on tumblr right here!

The caravans came in this order: Crazy Wolfgang, Doc Hoff, Lucky Harith and Crow. They visit on Thursday at the front gates of Megaton if the route is strangely mild, Fridays usually, and limp in on Sundays only on the very rare occasion. Megaton does not have a marketplace like Rivet City, so when Vaultie wants something exotic, he has to wait for the caravans.

Waiting isn’t always bad. Charon’s taught him that over the years. There’s a peacefulness in waiting. Stillness can be as much of a virtue as movement. This particular idea wormed into his brain and onto his mental shopping list on a Doc Hoff week, which meant he had to wait for two weeks, minimum. Two weeks wasn’t long.

Crow has kind eyes. He’s vaguely spiritual, wearing a collection of rosaries and twisted threads and trinkets around his neck that clink together when he leans forward for his customary two-handed handshake. Their interactions always feel like more than just transactions. That’s something Vaultie appreciates; Doc Hoff is especially slippery, and Wolfgang’s cajoling makes him feel queasy sometimes.

Adam’s hands are clammy in Crow’s. “I need...” His tongue chases the word in circles around his mouth, “Something nice.”

Crow is gentle and kind, dirt smeared against the bridge of his nose. Vaultie can see a resemblance between him and Yew, from Oasis. He’s never told him that. “Of course.” He says airily.

 

Two weeks after that, Crow is waiting for him at the gates of Megaton as the sun rises, a brown-paper wrapped bundle in his arms. “From your measurements.” He assures, “The closest fit.”

When he peeks between the paper layers, Adam glimpses black lace. He feels his heartbeat in his fingertips, stuttering, “Thank you.”

Charon is still on his morning run. Now that they are, unofficially, sort of, “retired”, Charon runs around the perimeter of Megaton at five in the morning, every morning, on the dot. Vaultie’s checked his Pip-Boy before when he’s staggered from bed; somehow, Charon’s internal clock runs true. It’s ironic, or so he’s been told, but spending months idle after two years running ragged does that to people. Vaultie returns to the house with the sun on the horizon, that blue dawn of morning that’s still new and damp. He steps out of his boots, the coolness of the floor soaking through his thick socks, and shrugs his jacket off onto the coat rack. It feels too quiet, too still.

Wadsworth sits motionless in the corner, powered off from the night before. Vaultie flicks the switch on the terminal tower, the machine filling the house with its usual dull hum. The lights in the docking station throw an amber glow over the walls.

“Let Charon know I’ll be upstairs, please.” He says, as the Mr. Handy unit powers on, tearing the packaging off his parcel. He lets the paper fall to the floor, too excited to make a detour to the kitchen to throw it away; he takes the stairs two at a time and trips on the last one up, scrambling to reach the bedroom.

Crow may speak like his head is in the clouds but he’s smarter than people give him credit for. It’s perfect. Two pieces. Nightwear in leopard-print lace and a thong, black silk. He lays them both out on his bed, where he’s made the sheets with proper hospital corners. He can’t stop looking at them as he undresses. They’re exactly what he had wanted. Something pretty in that pre-war way, rich fabrics and silly excess.

He steps into the underwear, first, sliding it up and on. He holds his breath as he pulls them up, but Crow had not misspoken that he had taken his measurements to heart when he went searching for him; they don’t dig into his skin, or cut into his thick thighs. He has to adjust himself in the crotch area, though, his cock twitching in his hands, so it doesn’t press awkwardly into his skin.

The chemise is next; It’s a babydoll fit, tight across the bust with black lace, and free flowing, gauzy mesh that floats down and over his torso. He has to adjust the straps, but it fits him, too, just long enough that the edge of it just barely comes down to cover everything. When he pulls down at the edges, trying to get it to at least fall down to the curve of his ass, the lace rubs against his nipples, already hard in the coolness of his home. It makes his breath come out a little harder than he intends to, an audible sigh.   
  
They found a full-length mirror a few years ago, mostly intact except a crack that runs down the entirty on the far left and a chip at the corner. It had been a literal pain to have it carted back from the vault they had found it in, but Vaultie loves it. It’s mounted on their bedroom wall, across from the bed. Shyly, he steps in front of it. The leopard print is something bolder than anything Vaultie would have ever willingly sought, but it’s— nice. He likes the way the gauzy fabric feels against his skin, especially when he twirls, and it floats in the air around him.

He twirls again, watching the way it rises and spins up around him airily. When he stops, with his back to the mirror, looking over his shoulder, he watches the mesh fall over him, covering up the line of his back and the dimples at the top of his ass as it floats down. With his back to the mirror, looking over his shoulder, he pulls the sheer mesh up, looking himself over. Vaultie’s never thought himself incredibly handsome or attractive, but even he can admit— he looks good. If there’s one part of his body he does like, it’s his lower half; he’s spent so long crouching in his stealth suit, and it shows. He likes the starkness of the silk against his skin, the way it disappears in the curve of his ass.

Charon inhales.

“Oh!” Vaultie startles, dropping the edge of the gauzy fabric as he turns. Charon looks just as surprised as him, standing in the doorway. He places the bag in his hands immediately down on Vaultie’s cluttered desk.

“Wadsworth said you were up here.” He says, his voice low. He’s already toed off his boots and hung up his jacket downstairs, like he always asks, so now he’s just dressed down in plainclothes. Charon’s eyes sweep his body. “This new?”

“This morning.” Vaultie can’t help but beam, already finding his hips swaying to feel the lingerie against his skin. “A special order from Crow.”

“Oh?” Charon breathes in, pulling his combat knife from the sheath on his shin and setting it loudly on the desk.

“Y-yeah...” Suddenly, Vaultie feels acutely naked— and that’s because he is, really, especially as his cock twitches in the underwear, threatening to stretch the tight confines. He tugs at the hem, over his front, shivering. Charon’s eyes flicker downward. “Uh, did you get groceries?”

Charon doesn’t correct him, that if they had been groceries, he would have left them downstairs in the kitchen.“Moira was open early. It’s just fusion batteries and a new pilot light.” His fingers are deftly working at the buckle of his belt, pulling it out of the loops of his pants in one movement. The sound of it makes Adam shiver, anticipation curling low in his belly.

“Oh, right.” His voice is tight, giving him away, “For the jukebox?”

“For the jukebox.” Charon repeats, grabbing his dirty shirt by them hem and pulling it off. Adam feels his heart skip a beat. Even after all this time, seeing him— he really does feel like giggling, sometimes, nervous energy and disbelief at seeing him like this. Charon’s so handsome. He’s gotten thicker around the middle, and it suits his broad frame. He throws it into the corner, taking two steps forward, and then stops.

“May I?”

Adam bites his lip. “Anything. Of course.”

Charon crosses the space between them in two long-legged steps and kisses Vaultie so hard his knees wobble; he moans into his mouth, wrapping his arms around him. He still smells like partially dried sweat from his run, and patches of him are clammy to the touch as he rakes his fingernails down Charon’s back, over the rivulets and bumps of his skin. It feels like Charon is trying to eat him alive with kisses, hard and fast and wet, and he moans appreciatively as his tongue slides over his.

“You look good.” Charon says plainly when they part for air, his appreciation echoed in the way his hands keep rubbing roughly up and down his side, underneath the soft feel of the negligee. When he moves his legs bump into Vaultie’s, guiding him; at first, he assumes the bed, but Charon stops just short of it, breaking their kiss. His fingers say stay in the taps against his hips, and he lets his hands trail over him as he circles Vaultie closely.

“I was not expecting this,” Charon’s voice comes out like a rumble against his skin, lips moving down to his neck. His hands haven’t left him, yet, even as he stops behind him. Vaultie can distinctly feel Charon through his pants as he presses against him. In front of them, in the reflection of the mirror, he can see the almost pained look on Charon’s face as he rubs his hands underneath the nightwear, his eyes glancing up, into the mirror, and then back down. “You look good.”

 _They_ look good. Vaultie watches himself, and Charon, in the mirror, watches his fingers tweak a nipple through the lace, his other hand petting his stomach. Vaultie can’t decide what he wants to arch; his hips, to encourage Charon’s hand downward, or his chest, trying to both chase and relieve the pressure on his nipples as Charon’s tugging gets a little sharper, a little firmer.

“Bed.”

“Bed,” Adam agrees, his voice hoarse, turning to face him. Charon shucks off his pants before he can even grasp at the hem, leaving him in only his socks; he pushes aside the lone teddy bear that sits on of the bed and lies back, on top of the sheets. Vaultie’s careful, mindful of the delicacy of his garments as he climbs up and straddles Charon.

He can feel Charon’s cock pressing against his ass, through the mesh train of the nightie. He grinds himself back against him, the head of Charon’s cock bumping between his cheeks.

Charon pulls at the left strap, until it comes off of his shoulder. It gives just enough slack that he can pull the unlined cup of the bust down, fully exposing his nipple; they’re hard, and one looks a little red, rubbed swollen from his touching and the texture of the lace. Charon’s stomach trembles as he leans up, sucking on the nub. Vaultie groans.

Charon runs his hands up his stomach, underneath the mesh, drags blunt nails down his stomach that leave faint red marks in their wake. Finally, finally his hands move downward, playing with just the edge of the thong. He can hear the rough texture of his ghoulified fingers scratching against the silk, striking a warm line from his hip bone down. “Oh,” Charon’s fingers catch the wet spot on the strained crotch of Vaultie’s underwear. He sucks in a sharp breath, eyelids fluttering as Charon rubs his thumb in a small circle over the head of his cock, presses against weeping slit. Charon’s voice gets throaty when he speaks so low, coming out like a growl with his frayed vocal chords: “You’re getting wet for me.” When he pulls his fingers back, they glisten. He raises the fingers to his mouth, momentarily, to taste, and Vaultie’s hips buck.

“Charon,” Vaultie warns, shoving a closed fist to his mouth to bite at his knuckles, watching as his fingers disappear between his lips. Charon’s hand comes back, now wet with saliva, and Vaultie’s whimper is strangled as Charon resumes teasing him, presses firmly down, slowly circling the head of his cock. The silk, damp as it is, feels so good against his skin; he wonders if he could cum like this in his underwear, mess all down the front. He’s sure he could do it untouched, too, listening to Charon like this, watching his face as he continues to rock back against his dick.

Charon hums. “What do you think?” His other fingers are playing with the hem of the underwear, ghosting against the soft skin there at the junction of his thigh, the flat of his palm radiation warm against his skin. Vaultie wants to think. He wants to give Charon an answer. All he can manage is a strangled whimper. “Should we take these off?”

Vaultie has to look to the ceiling, momentarily. His face feels hot. He looks back down at Charon, chewing on his bottom lip as he shakes his head no.

Adam can see the way Charon swallows, the way his glassy blues widen just a little.

“Push your underwear aside.”

Adam does what he’s told, reaching for the front—

His hand curls around his bulge, squeezing. “No.” Charon rasps, his voice wrecked with want. “The back.”

Vaultie feels heat crawl down his face, the lean contour of his neck, curling to his upper chest and collar bone. He pulls the fabric to the side, along with one of his cheeks, baring himself. Charon reaches back with his other hand, watching Vaultie’s face. He can’t look at Charon straight-on, not right now, but he can feel the warm pressure of his gaze, watching his reaction as he rubs his fingers against his hole. They’re warm, and still slightly damp with spit and precum; he presses, shallowly, and Vaultie shivers, arches his back.

The pressure of Charon’s hand is immediately missed when he removes it from his cock, but he’s reaching over to the side table, where they keep the lube. When Charon removes his hand, Adam holds his cheeks spread, wanting, feeling a bit wonton out in the open like this. He’s almost tempted to replace Charon’s fingers with his own, still feeling sensitive, the ghost of his touch lingering on his skin. Charon warms the lube up between his fingers before his hand disappears behind him again. There’s something unbearably lewd about having to be on display, in Charon’s lap, feeling but not being able to see Charon’s fingers probing him. His hand’s big, stretching the fabric of his thong, his pointer circling his hole before he presses in. He’s always been— tight. And for the first year, two years of their relationship? Adam never let more than a fingertip in, and certainly not Charon, who’s endowed to the point that its still intimidating, sometimes.

A part of him is afraid his hands, rough knuckles and wide palms and all, are going to snap the silk thong right off his body; and another part of Vaultie finds that idea terribly arousing, having Charon trash this beautiful pre-war piece in his want to fuck him. Charon must be feeling something similar, but he’s nothing but practical, pulling the thong down as much as he can with Adam straddling his lap and a finger slowly pumping in and out of him. His cock springs out, tenting the front of the nightie, and Adam groans, gripping Charon’s sides.

“Is this fine?” Charon coaxes, a second finger pressing warm against the first. Adam keens, nodding. Charon grasps his flagging erection, pumping him in time with the fingers curling into him. Looking down at his own cock and Charon’s burgundy skin through the mesh filter of the lingerie makes it feel somewhat dreamlike, combined with the fuzzy way building arousal always cottoned his mind. When his eyes flit up, to Charon’s face, he’s watching him.

“Do you want a third finger? Or me?”

Charon punctuates his question with a slow spread of his fingers, and Adam finds himself almost buckling on top of him, his nails biting into Charon’s skin.

“You,” Hazy with lust, he knows he can take it; and besides, he’s getting close, too close, that he’s afraid he won’t want to after he’s come.

Charon’s touches on his shaft are feather light as he removes his fingers, and again, Vaultie aches when he’s gone. “Guide me in.”

Vaultie scrambles to reach back, holding Charon’s cock by the base as he raises his hips up. Backwards, it’s a little hard to position him, but even so, it feels good rubbing the head of Charon’s cock against his lubed ass, the drag of his skin against Vaultie’s, until he can line the head of his cock up— he presses back, his breath hitching, and Charon pets his thighs. Vaultie concentrates on Charon’s face, the way his lips slightly part as the tip of his cock pushes in, the way his short, patchy eyelashes flutter as he pushes past the initial resistance and Adam slides down, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated and panting on his lap.

Adam groans, “Charon, please—“

Charon’s hips roll up against his. Vaultie’s thighs are trembling. He should have more stamina, but this— this has utterly wrecked him, shivering and dizzy with want, his fingers typing drunk against his skin.

Vaultie moves one leg off the bed, for balance. Charon plants his feet against the metal frame for leverage and with just that small amount of space between them, Charon pistons his hips upwards. It’s so hard it knocks the breath out of him, bouncing on his cock like this, and has Vaultie coming, cock untouched, with a shout, coating Charon’s chest; the relief of it is so intense there are tears in the corners of his eyes, his breath shaky as Charon fucks up and into him, chasing his own release. He falls over onto Charon’s chest, into his own mess, as Charon suddenly pulls out of him; he can feel his knuckles brushing against his cheeks as he fists himself to completion, sleepily pleased with the rumble Charon’s chest makes when he cums, stilted, wet over his ass and up his back.

“Fuck,” Charon’s practically wheezing. The sound of his voice rattling like that makes Vaultie’s dick twitch, trapped between their stomachs. “I apologize.”

“For...?”

“Coming on your lingerie.” He says, his words blunt but his voice soft.

Vaultie groans. “Oh. Laundry.” Charon helps him stand to his feet, and he has to momentarily brace himself against the bed frame, legs tingling. “I need to...”

“Wait—“ Charon’s eyes are dark. He uses his hands, warm and slightly tacky with lube as they skitter underneath the negligee to rest on his waist; he turns him around, so that he can see Vaultie’s back. The low sound of appreciation at the sight of him is genuine. He can’t see his own back, of course, but he can imagine it, cum striped up on the mesh, some of it having messily rolled down the curve of his ass. His fingers drag against Vaultie’s back, pressing cold and wet to his skin through the mesh, momentarily, before he pulls back. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Vaultie asks, and drums the words, too, on Charon’s skin, as he pulls away. As soon as he stands, the soiled underwear falls to his feet, and he picks that up. He strips the rest of the way as he pads shoeless through the house, to the top of the stairs.

Two weeks later, he’s waiting outside of Megaton’s gates again. Crow is on time, smiling pleasantly, even though both of his caravan guards look worse for wear. “And how have my vetements held up?”

Vaultie smiles. “Perfect. I— I want another pair.” But as Crow goes to write down the order, he has to stop him. “Oh. Oh, not my size. Actually— it’s going to have to be a, uh, little bit bigger.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!  
> tumblr: civilization-illstayrighthere


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